The Search
by The Freak Queen
Summary: Katja is a traveller- always on the lookout for a new "high." But when a major tragedy strikes in the middle of her journey home and a call to arms is issued, she will be forced to choose between the next adventure and the life she thought she could never have. (My first fanfic- don't be turned off by the genres I've put, it will hopefully be well-rounded!)
1. Chapter 1

Late. Late is not good when dealing with thugs, and I have somehow ended up that way. Late that is, not a thug.

"Well, look who decided to show up- you best hope we ain't wanting your blood slave girl."

_Slave girl. _I used to be-I used to clean and "entertain" guests and fight my brothers and sisters. I used to sleep in shackles and eat off the ground. I used to cower in fear around laguz and beorc alike.

No more.

"What do you want, Scarface?" I spit the words out. They leave a foul taste in my mouth, because I know that whatever task he gives me will leave me feeling similarly sick. This group this… _gang_… is dishonorable and criminal. They hate laguz, call them sub humans, and hate the Branded even more. I am glad for my long shirt and the dark night- they hide my wings so beautifully, like I was made for the night…

I can hear rustling in the bushes around the edge of the clearing I'm in. Outnumbered isn't a good thing to be when dealing thugs either, but I can handle them. I hold my position. There are probably three of them: Scarface, Jackson and Spider.

And I'm right. They all step out from the sides and behind me, carrying weapons. Though his lackeys have axes, Scarface carries a sword that he supposedly took from his father's dead hands after they fought for the last time. Not a very likely story though- I've seen him fight. He's mediocre at best.

"What I want right now is a bit of fun, but you've been unwilling to play," he finally replies. He walks up behind me, grabbing my hips and pulling my body snugly up against his. It's not a good fit, I'm too tall compared to him. I cross my arms and pull away, but Scarface digs his fingers into my hips and holds me there. He kisses the side of my neck, then moves up to my ear. After breathing heavily into it a few times, he whispers, "We could have so much fun, you and I, and it would only be one night… unless you wanted to go again."

I pull away again, and this time he lets me go. I turn to face him as Spider snickers, and he just smiles at me. I feel sick, he makes me want to be sick…

I almost start retching then and there. I tell him exactly where he can put his offer, and drop my hands to my sides. If there's going to be a fight, I want to be able to reach my knuckles quickly.

Instead of dropping off his face, Scarface's smile stays where it is. He doesn't move, not at all, and I wonder-

Why my stomach is on fire.

It's not, when I look down, but there's a knife sticking out of it. Someone else must have been there, sitting in a tree or behind a bush. It hurts like a bitch, but I'm too breathless to scream or do anything at all except raise my head to look at Jackson.

He just shrugs.

"You should have said yes, slave girl," I hear Scarface say, "You would have been a slave again, but you'd have been _my_ slave- and alive."

I just crumple. I curse silently, wishing I didn't have to end my life lying on the ground not twelve steps off the road.

They leave immediately after, Scarface stepping right over me on his way. I'm unsure of why he'd kill me now, but he obviously lost whatever leverage he thought he had and deemed me no longer useful. Or my fees were too expensive. My father would approve of that aspect of my job. My stepfather would just beat me.

I just stare up at the stars. Might as well, I used to enjoy it when I was kid, and what the hell else is there to do when you're bleeding out?

Ugh. I don't even have the energy to pull the stupid thing out.

"Hey!"

…

"You won't be getting anything from us, kid. Get your beorc ass out of here, and take your buddies with you."

…

"You'll regret this!"

…..Well, that was Scarface.

…..

I can hear rustling.

"Tibarn, there's a girl here."

Hey! That's me. Help me, please, I don't want to die anymore…

"Sonnofabitch!"

A young face appears above me, obscuring my view of the stars. He must have tried to lift me, which explains why I suddenly swore in pain. Guess I should have been paying better attention to what was going on.

"What, can't you lift her?"

"She's in pain. If we move her, and she passes out from the pain, she will die."

The last voice is calmer, nicer. It feels gentle, not at all slick and oily like Scarface's or prickly like Jackson's.

"What did she say?"

"Something about Jack's son," says the one leaning over me.

He leans even further over me- he's blond, and he's wearing a cute hat. He has wings too, which means he's laguz.

"Why?" I force the words out between heavy, numb lips.

Another face appears above me, with long white hair, white wings…

"An angel… Goddess, you're an angel…"

And the angel speaks to me.

"I can dull your pain, but you'll need to be coherent," he says. He is delicate looking, but with strength and kindness in his eyes. The other one isn't bad looking either, but this man, this angel, is ethereal, seeming to glow in the moonlight.

Then again, the sky has turned pink, so I may be hallucinating.

"Please… don't let me die… I don't want to die anymore…"

The angel looks confused- maybe the Goddess didn't tell him of my sin? He looks at the blond with the hat, who moves back out of my view.

I close my eyes and hear singing. The voice is pure and clean, washing over my skin like water from a stream. It is cool and refreshing, but at the same time it's warm and comforting. My pain lessens with each breath I take, until I feel that I can stand up right now and walk away. I can see now, too, that I wasn't hallucinating. The sky really is pink, the sun is rising in the sky and I can see it through the trees.

I move to sit up.

I feel hands on my shoulders instantly, pushing me back to the ground. Someone is cursing, and I feel warmth spill down onto my trousers. Right- the knife. Somehow, the fact that I've been stabbed and have four inches of metal inside of my stomach is irritating rather than painful. This is setting alarms off in the back of my mind, but these irritate me as well, so I ignore them for the moment. I sit up on my elbows, which causes no resistance from the hands again.

"Why did you stop?" I curse inwardly as my words slur together. I hate sounding drunk- especially when I'm not drunk.

I can see them all properly now- the one that asked what I said earlier is tall, well-muscled, and has a scar across his face. It looks a little like a scythe, the handle cutting across the bridge of his nose and the blade pointing down his left cheek. There is also the angel who is really a heron laguz- I feel like an idiot right now- and the blond with the hat. I can see a fourth now as well, who has been silent until now. He is tall as well, but thinner and paler. His face is narrow and his nose is rather prominent. With the exception of the heron, they are all hawks.

"Ulki heard you breathing and said you sounded as though you were injured," the heron says. His voice is still soothing, but not as powerfully so.

"Yes," I nod, "but why did you stay and help? I'm…"

I stop. I was lying on the ground on my back when they found me, and I was wearing a long shirt. They wouldn't have seen my wings. And I almost told them.

But surely they will see them now- the muscled one had walked around behind me and was now lifting me up into his arms, my shirt riding up in the back.

"We don't have time for this. We need to get her to the building up ahead- that should be where Rhys has his school. He'll be able to heal her."

His voice has a hard edge to it, like the dull side of a blade, and it burns hot like a flame. The heat isn't painful though, so I don't mind.

"I'll fly ahead," the blond replies, "To let him know we're coming."

His voice is like sunshine on my skin- comfortably warm but not a deep warmth, surface only. The pale one remains silent.

"You'll have to tell us if you get dizzy or feel like you're going to throw up. You'll be losing blood as we travel, so if you don't tell us, you could die."

"Got it. Let's go."

The heron nods and smiles encouragingly. His advice annoys me- this isn't my first "life-threatening" wound- but I know he's just trying to help.

The pale hawk and his hatted friend fly ahead. The heron and the hawk carrying me fly slower, weighed down and held back by me.

We reach the fort without incident. We enter and are greeted by a man in white robes- a priest or bishop of some kind. I remark to my carrier that I'm starting to feel pain again, which the heron replies is normal. I'm starting to lose consciousness now, the pain is getting worse quickly.

I somehow end up on a bed in a small, well-lit room without the knife in my belly, and the bottom half of my shirt has been cut away. My wound is throbbing now, sending waves of pain up my spine as well. Some wounds never heal, I guess.

The man in the white robes comes in with a staff. Oh shit- he wants to use that on me. I have to tell him, I have to make him stop-

"This won't hurt at all," he says.

"Wait-"

The staff begins to glow, and he touches it to my injury.

Pain engulfs me and a scream tears out from between my lips as the darkness closes in…


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Didn't get this put in my first chapter, sorry 'bout that! A few explanations…**

**Her name is pronounced KAT-ya, it's a German name because her dad's name is also German in origin. Yes, she is my own character (Are they called OCs?)**

**I didn't "choose" any characters from Fire Emblem because I'm not entirely sure who is or is not going to be in the story at this point. Some "for sures": Tormod, Sothe, Micaiah, Ranulf, Volke. No Ike or Soren because Ike and Soren left at the end of Radiant Dawn (if they had an "A" support. If you did not do this… I have nothing to say. I'm that flabbergasted.). My story takes place after Radiant Dawn. Unfortunately, _they are not coming back_. Much as I love Soren, I can't wrap my head around that much complexity (yet). I may change my mind about this, if I can increase my IQ enough to come up with a legitimate reason for them to come back.**

**My character is a "synesthete" In case I'm not using the correct noun or you aren't sure what I mean, she has a condition that we call synesthesia, meaning her senses work differently- she can literally "feel" voices. She was born this way. Make of this what you will.**

**Anyone confused about her wings will be receiving an explanation _eventually,_ if you haven't already picked up on contextual clues. I hope you haven't- that means more fun _torturing _you! Mwahahaha! Also, updates will most likely not be regular. Inspiration hits me in sporadic fits that can be anywhere between a few seconds to a few months apart. Hopefully, by writing bits and pieces in advance, I can solve this problem.**

**Sorry for my rambling! More info as we go along- and veterans of this site, pretty please don't be offended by me if I hit a wrong button or ignore you or block you- I am technologically impaired, and probably don't know that I have done such action, or are currently attempting to remedy the problem!**

**On with the show!**

"Ugh."

I open my eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the light at their own pace. I'm wearing the same top as last night, with long sleeves that flare at the end and a turtleneck collar, but my trousers and the shorts I was wearing underneath are both gone. Instead, I've been left with only my underwear to cover my lower half. The shirt is long enough to cover me, so it really can't hurt for me get up, now can it?

I roll off the bed slowly- I haven't forgotten my injury, there is a soreness to remind me- and make my way over to the dresser across from the bed. I open the note on top, and read it twice. Basically, it's an apology for what happened with the staff, not that he _knows_ it was the staff, and a warning not to do anything at all strenuous.

I throw the note on the floor and look in the mirror.

Goddess, I'm a mess. My short, black hair is in a horrible rat's nest, and I have tear stains on either side of my face. Blech. I hate crying.

And the scar on my stomach… actually, it's not so bad. The staff healed it into a starburst shape, and it's smooth, not raised like some of my other scars. Kind of cool, I must admit.

"I see you're finally up."

I whirl to face the door, hand flying to my hip, reaching for my knuckles. They aren't there.

The man facing me is not much of a threat though. His orange hair and pale skin remind me of a female laguz I saw a while ago, but that's where the similarities end. His face is kind, innocent, unmarked by hatred or anger of any kind. And his voice…

"Are you feeling better?"

Hmm. Sweet, but more like clean water sweet than sugar sweet.

I nod my head slowly. Better to look stupid, until I find out exactly what's going on.

He smiles. It's genuine- I can tell because it's inviting, but with sadness behind it. He looks at my shirt, and his smile is gone. He looks… ill. Strange, that a healer would be sick at the sight of blood, but there isn't much else he would be able to do from the look of him.

He comes into the room, rifling through the dresser drawers, eventually pulling out some clothes. They're about my size.

He waits outside while I change. When I come out, he leads me to a room with a table. The hawks and the heron from last night are sitting there, talking amongst themselves. The muscled one with the dull knife voice nods in my direction.

"You're up," he says. "Want to tell us what happened three nights ago?"

Three nights ago? Have I really been asleep that long? But that means-

"Oh my Goddess! Jessob!"

"Whoah, hold on, calm down."

The hawk stands up now, coming over to lead me to a chair and make me sit down. But I don't want to sit down, I need to leave, I have to find Jessob-

"Sit."

The dull knife turns sharp, and I do as I'm commanded. He pushes in the chair, then grabs another- he put me in his chair. Smart, since it means the rest of them and the table are between me and the only door in this room, and running around when you don't know the terrain is foolish.

"When you found me- which was three nights ago, according to you- I was trying to get in touch with some friends," I say. The lie comes easily enough; one of the differences between my father and I is that he just withholds information. I lie.

"Someone else was waiting there instead. People I had refused to work with before. They were angry, and had scared off my friend and waited there for me. There were four of them, one of them stabbed me and they all ran off. I heard your confrontation with them after."

I pause. Hopefully, that will satisfy them for now.

It does. Sort of.

"Interesting. It's strange that a bunch of people would just come across your friend beside a road in basically the middle nowhere," the hawk says.

I just shrug. "Do you believe in coincidence?" I ask him.

He doesn't even consider the question before answering a negative.

"Smart man. I don't either, but sometimes, the significance of an event isn't apparent for a while."

This time, they are satisfied.

"Fine. But what happened with the staff? People don't just scream in pain when they're being healed."

I shift uncomfortably. Goddess, he is nosy! I don't have to tell him anything, and yet I feel like I should. I don't want to, but I should. Like making my bed.

But I don't make my bed. So there, mister nosy hawk man.

"Maybe we should get her name before we ask her anything else?" the priest interjects. All eyes turn to me, and my cheeks turn red. Well, red with a white spot in the middle- my cheeks look like an archery target when I blush!

"Um… Katja. My name is Katja. And… I don't like staves. They hurt me when they heal me- it's like I feel all the pain I would have felt during the natural recovery, but all at once."

_Why _are they all _staring_ at me? I'm not just some- some- _freak _ for them to stare at!

"What are you looking at?" I snap at them. They just keep looking at me, trying to decide what to do next, I guess. Now that I'm actually looking at them all, the really muscular hawk seems kind of familiar…

"What are you thinking, Tibarn?" the heron asks him.

Oh, for the love of Altina! My. Luck. _Sucks._ It's completely abysmal. And absurd. And… I hate my life. Period.

"I'm thinking we should get moving. We're already late. We need to start making good time or we'll never get there."

"Where you going?" I ask, maybe a little too quickly. Tibarn doesn't answer me. Nobody ever answers me, except Jessob, and he technically _can't _ answer me.

"Please- let me travel with you. I'm fairly light, especially with your strength, and I don't need to pack anything, I can travel as is." I look at his face. His scar holds my attention for a while, and I wonder how he got it. He was never a slave; that fact is painfully obvious to me, and I envy him for that. When he finally looks me in the eye, though, I have to look back. Not because I feel compelled to or because he makes me want to, but because that's the essence of a good lie. If you can look them in the eye, you're set for the rest of the deception.

"Please," I lower my voice, forcing tears to my eyes and a tightness in my throat, "I have to find Jessob- my brother. I have to get back to him. He needs me." Not strictly a lie- I do have to find Jessob. And he is a brother of sorts. All good lies contain a bit of truth- my father taught me that. Funny, because he hardly ever lies, just holds back the one piece of information you can't possibly live without…

"We can't take you with us- not all the way to Daein. But if we can find a caravan for you travel with, we'll drop you off with them. If not, we'll leave you at the next town."

My heart beats wildly- I've never _flown _before, not while coherent anyways. Looking down on the scenery from so high… I bet I'll be in ecstasy! It'll be like the first time I climbed a tree… or the time I jumped out of the tree… or the time I went over the waterfall…

I may have found my next high!


	3. Chapter 3

Travelling has always been my favorite thing to do, but this… this is exhilarating.

Last night, the pale one- Ulki- almost caught my con before I could start it. My heart had been beating so hard at the thought of flying that I thought it was going to burst through my chest! Ulki could hear it though; I guess he isn't called the King's Ears for nothing. I had to make myself sound breathless, which I was from the thought of flying, and thank them profusely for their help. Stupid marks. If they ever catch on to my deception, I'll quit the con life and become a farmer.

Not.

I love this life too much to give it up. It's like a drug for me. Some people smoke weed, get high, come down. Others drink alcohol, get drunk, get hung over. Still others cut themselves, scare themselves, fight, whatever. Some of these things are okay too, in their own right, but none of them get me high or drunk like a good lie. The thrill of being in control behind the scenes, of tricking people, of maybe getting _caught_- that's what gets me high.

And also, apparently, flying.

Wind whipping through my hair, the ground so far below me, the wonder of the fact that I am _hundreds of feet in the air_- this is what I was always looking for, when I was a kid. All of the jumping off things and out of trees and riding over waterfalls… _this _is the feeling I was trying to capture. It's just like my dreams.

I think my grandmother must have given my mother impressions of what it was like when she flew, which my mother then passed to me through her Curse. Mother could show me things that I'd never seen, that she'd never seen, and make me feel things I'd never felt. Even though I have "wings" of my own, I'll never be able to fly with them. I used to consider that my Curse, until I found mine- though really, it was Curs_es_ in my case.

Even among freaks I'm a freak.

Wait- why can't I breathe?

I look down at Janaff- he actually volunteered to carry me- and tap on his head. I signal that I need to talk to him, and he proceeds to land. Quite a process, actually, since we're so high up. The others follow, probably concerned as to why we would be stopping.

Once we get to the ground I feel fine, and everyone looks at me strangely. I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks again- Goddess, it's a wonder that I make it as a con!- and I start to think that maybe I should have just not said anything.

Oh for Altina's sake, just spit it out!

"I couldn't breathe."

"Oh- sorry about that! I guess I flew too high for you. You aren't used to this, are you?" Janaff asks.

No, as a matter of fact, my grandmother did not ever conceive that I may need to know that there is _no air_ for me to breathe waaaaaay up in the big blue yonder when she inadvertently transferred her memories of flying to my mother who then gave them to me!

I shake my head.

"Sorry 'bout that!" he repeats, "I'll just fly lower from now on."

I immediately feel bad about my internal burst of anger. I wish he could talk to me in bird form- I love his voice. It makes my skin feel warm, and it gets so cold up there in the wind. If he could talk to me while I was flying with him, I wouldn't freeze up there.

"You don't have to do that. I- I saw a caravan not too far from here. I can see if they're going the same way, and travel with them instead."

… What on earth? I can't _seriously_ be feeling _bad _for these marks? I don't feel anything for anyone unless it's hatred- with the exception of Jessob. I love Jessob more than I love myself. Wait, never mind- I love everyone more than myself. I love Jessob more than-

Huh. I'll have to think on this one.

"Not sure that you'll want to travel with them, but we'll fly you over anyway," Janaff chuckles. My guard is up instantly- the way he said "them" is strange…

It takes about five minutes to fly ahead to the caravan, which is the equivalent of too much walking. If they had actually made me walk here, I would probably have given up halfway.

It's a small caravan. There's three men and two women, a mix-and-match bunch. Only the Goddess know if they're a proper family, but I would guess not. I'm still wary of them as we land beside one of the wagons, something about the way Janaff talked about them is making me feel paranoid about meeting them, let alone travelling with them.

"Ah, Tibarn," one woman greets the hawk king, "It's a pleasure seeing you here. I wonder if you've seen Ike…?"

Whoah, hold on- Ike? This lady must be nuts! If she's talking about who I think she's talking about, then she's living in a wacky made-up world. Nobody's seen Ike for a couple of years now. Apparently, he and his tactician ran off across the Desert of Death and were most definitely _not _planning on coming back. Ever. For any reason.

"No, Aimee, I haven't. He's gone for good this time. I've spoken to his sister- she got a note the night he left saying he was leaving Tellius to see what else was out there. He didn't feel that he was needed here anymore."

Right. Well. I had the same information at my disposal, and he has it from what I take it is an infallible source. Good.

Also, this lady's name is Aimee, and she's definitely a nutcase. Not so good.

"Well, hello there dear," she says as she looks at me. I shy away, because I most definitely do _not_ want an insane person to decide that they don't like me. That would fit well in the "not so good" category along with "Aimee is a nutcase."

"Yeah. That's actually why we're here. Her name's Katja, and she's heading to Daein. She has a brother there, and she can't travel alone. I would take her, but we're behind schedule to meet someone, so if you're heading the same direction-"

Aimee cuts Tibarn off midsentence.

"Of course! I understand. Well then! Katja, is it dear?" she asks. I nod, and shuffle back a step, almost standing on top of Janaff's foot.

"Well, Katja, I am sure no one will mind if you travel with us! Come, I'll introduce you everyone before we get on with supper."

She turns and walks away, not bothering to check if I'm following her.

I sigh and look at Janaff.

"Well, thanks for flying me this far." I mean it this time when I thank them. I've found that I've actually taken a liking to the group, especially Janaff. If he wasn't a mark, I might have been his friend instead of… well, not.

"No problem," he answers me. Goddess, for someone who's over a hundred, he sure trusts easily! It almost makes me feel bad.

Almost.

"Don't be in too much of a hurry to say your goodbyes." I whip around to see Aimee standing only a few yards away. She must have stopped walking to wait for me. She's lucky I wasn't on edge when she did that! Crazy lady…

"You'll stay the night, won't you, hawk king? Your people don't see well in the dark, and they must be tired from their flight."

I look at Tibarn expectantly, waiting for his decision. Surely he can see as well as I do, if not better, that they all are exhausted. Especially Reyson, although he tries to stand up straight and look like he's fine. I have to give it to him, he's tougher than I would have expected for a heron. Living with the hawk tribe for however long must have hardened him. He's still not as hardy as the rest of the group- not sure whether I should count myself or not, he's still a laguz, after all- and he definitely needs to rest. Something tells me, though, that if Tibarn decides to fly on, he won't complain.

If for no other reason than pride, I expect Tibarn to refuse Aimee's offer.

"Sure, we'll stay for tonight. Besides, is we could pick up some olivi grass from your bargain section, it'll be well worth it."

As I recover from the shock of his unexpected answer, Aimee gives him a smile and motions for us to follow her. I had Tibarn pegged as one of those guys who needs to maintain a tough reputation to hide behind.

Note to self: underestimate Tibarn? Don't even try it. if I had made a mistake like that in a battle with him, I'd be dead very, _very _quick.

Aimee leads us to a fire in the middle of the wagons. She introduces me to the others; Illyana is the one with purple hair, Jorge is blond and his twin Daniel has brown hair, and Muston is very… hairy. Except for the top of his head, which is bald. Definitely an odd group, this. Also, why am I fixating on their hair?

I'm offered food, which I accept. I haven't eaten a proper meal in three days, the healer- I think his name was Rhys- told me I should wait for a bit before eating. Since, you know, my stomach had a knife stuck in it and all that. As a result, I'm hungry. Very hungry. Eat three platefuls of food in an hour hungry.

Although, I get beat by that Illyana girl- she had six plates! Then dessert!

Settling down is harder though. I wasn't worried about poison- poison doesn't affect me the way it does some people. Well, most people. Well… everybody else.

The mat is comfortable, and I have a good amount of privacy, which I guess is the problem. The privacy, that is, not the mat. The fact is, the amount of privacy I do have is enough that if someone wanted to kill me, no one would see them. Not in the middle of the night anyway. But right now, anybody could come around and see me changing, which is another problem altogether. Honestly, I think I would prefer having my throat slit than these people figuring out what I am.

I pull of my shirt and look at my back in the mirror that hangs on the wall of the wagon. My wings are still there, of course, mocking me. They're black, like a raven's wings, but mine can't help me. Mine can't make me fly.

The wings are my Brand. My mother had one, my father had one, and now I have one. Mother's Brand was also large, but hers was easy, a tawny, spiralling pattern on her right side. She didn't have to worry, because if she was tan- and she was almost always tan, even in winter- you couldn't even see it. Mine… it's hard to hide. I can't wear tops that show my stomach when the weather is hot, and I've never been to a proper healer before, not until Tibarn & Co. rescued me at least. It's weird, because even though my grandmother was a raven, my grandfather was a Branded. Beast laguz of some kind, probably a cat. That's my mother's side of the family, my father… wolf laguz and beorc mix. He was also Branded, and his Brand was on his wrist. Like a bracelet, mother always told me.

I never really met my father. Everything I know, I know from my mother. She told me about his habits, how they met, that he was a "good man." She told me that he worked hard to take care of us. And because she I was young, and I was clueless, and because _she was my mother_, I believed her.

Turns out it was all bullshit. Lies, just like the ones I've gotten so used to telling. My father left us. He was never around, never came to see me even once, and sure as hell wasn't working hard to support us. The only thing that I know for sure isn't a lie is his hair colour. It's brown. Mother had a lock of his hair braided in with her own, and she never took the braid out. Her hair was blonde, though she died it black for some reason that I never understood. Not that it matters, 'cause she's dead. And if my father was even a _fraction _of the man that she thought he was, he would have saved her.

As I drop off to sleep, this thought is the one I keep in my mind.

_If he was any kind of a man at all, he would have saved her…_

**Author's Note: I will be using the term "mark" a lot. Actually, Katja will, but you get the idea. Anyway, a mark is a person who is being conned. it's from the old circuses and midways, where anyone who could be taken advantage by a carnie would be slapped on the back, leaving a dusty hand print or a stain on their coat, thereby signalling to other carnies that they were good targets for cons. And sorry if I was leading you on with her wings! Some of you already know that I am going to do another story at some point about the bird tribe laguz, but this is not that story. Although one of my favorite bird laguz will be making an appearance in this story, and no, he has not appeared yet! Do with this information what you will.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Alright, here we go again! You guys are going to start getting cranky when I get busy and can't update as often! Anyway, short and uneventful chapter here, but important for plot clues, learning who the hell Jessob is, and getting a better idea of Katja's angry internal dialogue. You're going to start noticing that certain parts of her personality are contradictory to one another- that's for a very good reason... Anyway, hopefully the cliffhanger I left is good (meaning it annoys the hell out of my readers!) and keeps you coming back. And in regards to last chapter's angst moment... what can I say? She loves her mother, even if she can't forgive her lies. Kind of like real life, except this will all make sense in the end. Now, my alternate personality is screaming at me to quit talking and let you read. So. Enjoy! **

Three weeks. Three horrible weeks. Three long, miserable, excruciatingly painful, psychologically taxing, bloody friggin' _weeks._

That is how long I've been with this stupid caravan.

The twins won't leave me the hell alone, and it's starting to tick me off. I don't even walk around the camp anymore unless I'm wearing my brass knuckles, and even then they're not always put off. It's annoying that they're always wanting to know if I need something- _anything at all,_ Jorge emphasizes- and standing too close to me. Aimee doesn't appreciate me walking around with my knuckles all the time either, she says I'm "scaring away customers." Ha! More like _I'm_ trying to defend myself and _she's _being a total nutcase by asking everyone if they've heard news of her "_beloved hero_."

Three weeks of this. I have had _enough._ Sure, they're odd, but this is ridiculous. I could deal with Aimee and the twins if one or the others could be subtle about their insanity, but no. They just act crazy. And if Jorge tries to get too close to me again, I swear to Ashera I will _knock his teeth out! _Ignorant pervert.

"Katja-"

"What the hell do you want now?" I growl, and turn around to face-

Daniel. Oh hell. I hate myself right now, I really, _really_ do. Still hate Jorge more, though.

"Sorry Daniel, I thought it was Jorge trying to sneak up behind me again. What is it that you need?"

"Well, we're almost to Nevassa-" Yes! Finally! No more perverted Jorge and crazy Aimee!

"-and I was wondering what kind of weapon you use. Other than your knuckles, I mean."

Weapon? Right- Daniel makes things. Makes sense, because his brother likes to destroy things, such as my patience, and Goddess knows I have very little of that in the first place. Also a good thing, Daniel makes _sharp _and _dangerous_ things. Hmm… maybe this caravan isn't as bad as I thought.

Nope. It is. Daniel is cool though.

"Uh, well, I use… blades, I guess," I say cautiously. I don't want to give away my… _profession_… in case word gets out and my reputation gets destroyed. Well, reputation with what I call The Network. The marks have no idea that I even exist, let alone have a reputation.

"Blades, huh? That's good- what kind of sword do you want?"

"Well, um… I really don't use swords…"

Daniel looks at me, confused. Then it dawns on him that maybe, just _maybe-_

"You use knives, don't you?"

"Well, technically speaking I just use _weapons,_ but yeah. Knives are my specialty. And axes are slow. That's about the only thing I won't use if I don't have to. But, if you don't want to make a knife, I can use a sword well enough." I really don't want Daniel to go through too much trouble to make me a weapon. And knives can be hard to craft if they're meant to be thrown, because if they're even a little unbalanced, they're accuracy goes down. Like, way down. As in unpredictable and dangerous to anyone within three meters on either side of the target.

"No problem, I'll make you a knife. I'm also going to assume that you put more emphasis on speed than strength when you fight, is that correct?"

_Damn, _this kid is _good._

"Yeah, I do. Thanks… and it'll work to be thrown?"

Ah, the kicker. I'm not interested if I can't throw it, because even though I'm fast, if some idiot with a strong arm or stupidly good weapon hits me, I'm not toast, I'm burnt to embers.

I look at him with great interest, not letting it show in my face. If he can pull this off, I'll be set for life! Or until the knife breaks. Whichever comes first. So really, not set for life, but who cares!

"Yeah, I can make it a throwing weapon. Well, thanks for talking to me! I'll see what I can make for you!"

And he runs off. I don't even get a chance to tell him thanks or that he doesn't need to thank me for letting him make something for me. Or talking to him, for that matter. He's intelligent, unlike some _similar _looking people in this caravan. Like, for a "random example," his brother.

I look around at the scenery. There isn't really a whole lot to look at here, but that's fine. There will be once we get to Nevassa. I've always loved Daein, even though it went weird in the Mad King's War…

Hold on. Did I say when _we_ get to Nevassa? I meant to say _I _didn't I? I can't consider myself part of this group. I can't keep feeling things for people, except hate or mutual respect, if I want to make it back to Jessob.

Jessob, I hope you're okay.

I still remember when I met him. He was trying to pick my pocket, the brat. I caught him and took him into an alley, then demanded he tell me his name and where his parents were. He just stared at me, tears running down his face. I took him with me to the inn where I was staying temporarily, and left him up in the room. When I came back, there were papers everywhere and charcoal was piled next to him. He held up a piece of paper that said, "My name is Jessob. I have no parints or homm. help mee?" I took care of him after that. We came up with signs for each letter of the alphabet and some individual words that he couldn't spell or that we used a lot. I practiced using them too, because we could use them to communicate in a crowd or when we needed to be silent. I think we both needed each other- he needed me to take care of him, and I needed someone to keep me human. It's hard to keep that in perspective, the fact that you're human, when you don't have someone to love. He's the only person I love aside from my mother, and she's dead. I can't afford to care anymore. Caring is dangerous. It kills.

I really do hope that Jessob is okay. Not sure how he's been entertaining himself- probably random pickpocketing- but the rest should have been okay for him to do on his own for as long as I was gone. Besides, usually someone would see the "poor little orphan boy" and he'd go live with them while I would be gone. When I came back, he'd take all the valuables he could carry and we'd disappear, leaving them broke and bewildered. Hilarious, really.

Then again, maybe we shouldn't have laughed so hard. After all, they did take care of him…

"My Goddess, Daniel, it's beautiful!"

Sadly, that's not me. I wish it was, because I've been getting excited thinking about my knife, but it's not. Daniel made a necklace for Aimee to sell in her bargain section, which, when I think about it, has absolutely zero bargains in it. Everything is stupidly expensive, and people pay _double_ what Aimee did to get the goods in the first place. Makes me give her a small amount of respect for pulling it off, but there's no way she could be a stationary shop vendor- even the stupidest sucker catches on eventually, and the worse you rip them off, the sooner you get caught. I'm not making this up either.

"And here you go!"

I kick myself mentally for being startled by somebody who's standing right in front of me before realizing that Daniel is holding out something wrapped in cloth. I take it from him and smile, praying that he didn't make me a bronze knife or something like-

"Oh…" I breathe, stunned. This isn't even a knife, it's a wickedly curved dagger, and it is still a throwing weapon. I can tell just by holding it in my hands that it's perfectly weighted for me, and only me. My own _personal_ weapon, made just for me, to fit my strengths and my style. Not only that, but it's _gorgeous_. The blade is silver and the handle is ebony with silver inlay and an emerald set in the end of it.

"Daniel, how did you find time to make this? It must have taken hours… and I can't even pay you for it."

"Don't worry about paying for it. I figured I should do something for you, you looked miserable for the last few days and it's kind of an apology for Jorge." He smiles, then says, "I think the emerald goes nicely with your eyes."

Oh Goddess- don't blush don't blush don't blush don't-

"Are you okay?"

Damn it!

"Yeah, I… I'm good. Thank you so much, and… apology accepted."

A few hours after saying my goodbyes- some happy, a few not so much- I find myself wandering the streets of Nevassa. The capital of Daein, the home of the Dawn Brigade, the center of Queen Micaiah's kingdom… or maybe it would be a queendom if she passes the throne down through the female line, who knows. More importantly, who cares? As far as I'm concerned, Nevassa is just a city, albeit one that I have to come back to time and again.

I continue wandering, knowing that I'll find Jessob eventually. After all, he never could resist the opportunity to try and pick my pocket. Again.

And that's when I see the posters.

**Author's Note (again): Okay, so maybe posters were a lame way to finish this chapter off, but what can I say? I'm lame. Also, you may have noticed a slight increase in the number of curses I'm using in this fic. It will continue like this until I can get Katja into a more stable place in her life- yes, that sounds a bit therapist-ish to me too- but I will be avoiding certain words because I rated this T and don't know if the "F" or "B" words are acceptable in a T rated fic. Actually, I'm not sure that they're accepted at _all _on this site. Besides, other than the technically correct use of the word "bastard"- please don't hit the report abuse button! I'll be good, I swear!- they aren't really Katja's style. In case you don't know, that word is actually a term for an illegitimate child. So in real life, I am one! And yes, this term does apply to illegitimate female children as well as male ones. Oh, and by the way, if you are sad or frustrated by this author's note... it wasn't a coincidence that my bracket comment followed by a colon makes a sad face.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Well, been a while since my last chapter. Sorry about that! Had multiple dance workshops, dance summer school, and dance auditions... because I'm definitely not dance crazy or anything. :-) So, will be elaborating a bit more on the general timeline of Katja's life and her synesthesia, as well as introducing some more _actual_ PoR characters. One of my favorites and one of the (in my opinion) most interesting. Updates will most probably NOT become more frequent, unfortunately, since school is starting soon and have dance lessons EVERY night after school. Reviews motivate me and give me ideas though, whether you mean to give me ideas or not, so they are quite welcome! Even negative reviews are welcome, because it's your opinion and you have a moral responsibility to tell me when my writing sucks. Seriously. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES TELL ME I AM GOOD IF I AM NOT! Now, because I am quite certain that the few of you who read these notes are not doing so for my (cue sarcasm) considerable charm and personality (end sarcasm), This author's note is now terminated!**

I quickly duck around a corner, cursing my luck. There are six or seven wanted posters up, and at least three of them had sketches of me on them. Sure they're horrible and don't look a _lot_ like me, but all you need is a slight resemblance and suddenly people pay _very_ close attention to anyone fitting even part of the description.

Come on, think!

Street is filled with people, but none of them have black hair- what the hell are the odds of that anyway?- so I can't draw attention by yelling to the guards. If I go out there without anything to disguise myself, I'll be recognized and forced to run, but at the same time, I can't cover my face because that looks conspicuous. What to do, what to do… I estimate, based on the poor resemblance I bear to the sketch, or it to me or whatever, that I have about three minutes of free time to walk about before someone spots me and alerts the guards. If I remember correctly- and I hope that I do- there is an herbalist on the other side of the street… there!

I slide out of the alley, making my way over to the shop. I'm careful to make sure that my hair remains tucked behind my ears, since the sketch shows me with hair covering half of my face. Sure that's useful if you're running away from someone and you need to look different fast, but I don't wear it like that when I'm out and about. I need to be able to _see_ my surroundings. Idiot sketch artist, I love you right now. Don't go getting any skills now, you hear?

Once I'm inside the shop, the herbalist looks up at me. I recognize him, I actually worked for him when I was younger, albeit under the name Matilda. Why Matilda? No idea, other than I was really fond of having boyish nicknames at that point. As a result, the herbalist calls me by the name he used when I worked for him.

"Mattie? Oh, it _has_ been a while, hasn't it! Come in, come in, make yourself comfortable!"

I allow myself a small smile. Kraun is someone else I don't mind having around to help keep me human. He's a contact, so I don't think he counts on the _very _short list of people I care about, but I do work hard to keep him from getting caught. Mostly because I _care _if he's caught. After all, who else is going to help me with disguises when I need to run?

"Long time no see, Kraun."

"Well, what do you need his time, Mattie? Go on and spit it out, I haven't all day," the man pushes me behind a beaded curtain- he always did like adhering to clichés about herbalists- to the back room where he keeps his "potions."

The room is filled with smoke from burning green wood and incense, almost choking me before I get used to it, and its walls are nothing but shelf. Seriously, there isn't any actual wall, it's just shelves from floor to ceiling. The shelves are filled with jars and other containers, with some clothes sitting around here and there. I've already started my mental checklist- fake scar, dirt, new clothes, and some jewelry. If I play my cards right, I may even be able to wear a crop top-

Never mind. Stupid wings!

"Right, I'll need a scar beside my lip, cover the ones on my wrist, and new clothes. Gypsy should work well, but I can't have any skin showing."

Kraun frowns.

"Mattie, gypsy only works with some midriff showing. If you want a more conservative one, I have a top with the back covered, but the front cuts off just under the bust line."

I allow a grin to grace my face.

"That's perfect Kraun. Now, find those clothes and I'll get to work scarring my pretty face," I smirk. My pretty face isn't really all that pretty, but whatever. _I _think it's funny, in any case.

As Kraun shuffles off to find me a new shirt, I look in the mirror. A young woman with short black hair, green eyes, and pale skin stares back at me. I really can't be considered pretty, because my hair is too short for a woman and green is not necessarily a sought-after eye colour. Also, I have absolutely no skills other than stealing things and killing people and lying to cover my ass. Seriously, I can't cook, clean, sew, knit, or anything else that a wife should be able to do. My social skills are horrible and my sense of humour is morbid. All in all, not really somebody you'd want to hang out with unless you don't mind keeping one eye open at all times.

By the time Kraun gets back, I have a scar on my right cheekbone and one beside my lip, a small x. The scars on my wrists are covered by stacks of bracelets for the left and a wrap for the longer cut on the right. I never had much use for make-up- all the coloured paints, the kohl-lined eyes, the reddened lips- until I learned that it could be used to change my appearance more than clothes ever could, disguise me. Now, I carry it around in my knapsack, along with my knuckles and healing supplies.

"Here you are Mattie." Kraun hands me the shirt, a pair of loose pants, and a bandana for my hair. The bandana is multi-coloured, and I feel silly wearing something so bright, but after putting the rest of the outfit on and letting Kraun mess around with some kohl liner, the end result is pretty decent. I definitely pass for a gypsy, though not necessarily an attractive one. Even for gypsies I'm not a good fit, but it doesn't really matter. Most people wouldn't know what "real" gypsies are like anyway, though they like to think that they do. In any case, it doesn't matter whether I _look _the part; I just need to _act_ the part.

I check in the mirror to make sure my wings are covered, thank Kraun sweetly, and exit the shop. I'll send him some gold later, but I need to get a move on. Jessob is probably waiting for me.

Once out in the street, I walk in amongst the people for a bit before buying a random ring and disappearing down an alleyway. After wandering the backstreets for a bit, mostly trying to throw off anyone who might be following me, I come to an abandoned house. Since Jessob hasn't tried to pick my pocket yet, he'll be waiting for me here. If he isn't here, then he got picked up by some family and he'll check here at some point within a week.

I open the door quietly and am immediately assaulted by a six year old boy.

Jessob throws his arms around my waist and squeezes as hard as he can, as though he isn't ever going to let go of me again. It always amazes me, his innocence; he doesn't care that his arms are under my shirt, touching the Brand on my back, doesn't care that I'm not really his sister, doesn't care that I disappear for weeks, sometimes months on end. It doesn't matter to him that I don't have a job, that I used to be scarred, or that I'm not fit to be called human. He doesn't give a damn that I'm filth, that I'm nothing, that I will never be anything. I am the only person who gave him everything I had when I didn't even have enough for myself and loved him enough to do it over and over again, and in his eyes, that makes me everything.

I hug him back, pressing his head to my stomach, feeling his exhales warming my skin and his inhales cooling it. I hear another set of breaths coming from the doorway to my right, and glance over to see who's there. A familiar face looks back at me, a man with a blond ponytail and blue eyes who has an annoying tendency to slip in and out of iambic pentameter when speaking, especially around nobles or people of importance.

"How wonderful of you to visit us," he smiles.

"Long time no see, Bastian," I reply. He had taken care of me after my rescue from slavery, since my mother was dead and my father was nowhere to be found. Not that I'd want to go with him- he left my mother, abandoned us, and if I ever see him I'll try my damned hardest to kill him. As it is, Bastian made a good substitute father, although we usually didn't see eye to eye. Still, he took care of me and taught- well, attempted to teach- me some manners.

He also introduced me to tea, for which I am eternally grateful.

"Indeed," he answers. As he strides over to where I'm standing with Jessob's arms around me like a belt, I see a shadow flick across the doorway. I'm not entirely sure that I actually saw it, but I've learned to trust my gut in this particular matter, especially if Bastian is around.

"Hello to you too, Volke," I call. I get no answer, of course, but Bastian's eyes flick over his shoulder. For a man who gambles frequently, his tells are pretty obvious.

Jessob finally breaks off our hug and looks up at me. He signs that he missed me and that he has been staying here with Bastian and "the sneaky silent man" while I was away. His fingers move through the signs fluidly, almost hypnotizing me with the rhythm. I wave away his questions, telling him I'll answer them later, and send him to the bedroom. Once he's gone, I lean against the wall sigh; as much as I hate this part of coming home to a Bastian-looked-after Jessob, it needs to be done.

"Why are you here? I swear, if you've been using the place to give Volke his contracts…"

I leave threat unfinished because that's all it is, a threat. I have no intention of doing anything except shaming Bastian into humility and glaring at Volke until I get frustrated with his lack of response. The man gets under my skin in a way that not even Scarface could. Whenever he's around I get the feeling that he's studying me, comparing me to something or someone else. It makes me uncomfortable, like there's a thousand spiders crawling over my skin, and his voice feels like the sharp edge of a dagger being drawn across my skin so lightly that it sends shivers down my spine. That being said, sometimes it feels like a warm hug, like my mother used to do when I had nightmares, but stronger and more protective. It's like that with most people- they're moods change how their voices feel. Bastian's is usually like sitting in the sun on a really hot day, so warm that it almost burns. But when he's gambling, it suddenly becomes cool, like the first few snowflakes on your skin in winter. I've never felt Kraun's voice because all the spices and things that he burns give me a headache and mess with my senses.

But none of this has anything to do with why Bastian is back in Daein.

"I shouldn't need reasons to visit you," he starts, but I don't let him finish.

"Don't give me that bull about me being the daughter of a good friend and about just wanting to see me. Last time we did this dance the world was turned to stone and there was war against the goddess. Then, you were hunting that madman Izuka. So what is it this time?"

Volke walked through the entryway, startling me. He look directly at me and, against all my expectations, gave me a straight answer to my question.

"We're here to talk to Sothe and Micaiah about a Branded uprising in Crimea."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: I will warn you now, Volke is not entirely in character, and I can explain it, just... not right now. The problem with keeping Volke in character for a story where he does more than kill people and demand money is that, in the FE games, there's no other characterization. All he does is kill people and demand gold for silly things! So because of the backstory I've created for Volke- which will NOT be posted until this story is well on it's way to running itself- and because it's easier this way, he is what could be considered out of character. But who really knows? Maybe I've got the character dead on when he's comfortable. That's my story and I'm sticking to it! And, since this actually _is _my story and not my online ramble recorder... on with the show!**

"Excuse me?"

This is wrong. I heard this wrong, I know I did. A Branded _uprising_? There's just no way.

I shake my head quickly, not believing what I heard at all. It's not like Volke to make a joke, but I wouldn't put it past him to test my knowledge of current events. Sometimes I feel like he and Bastian conspire against me just to see how out of touch with the world I really am.

"An uprising. Of Branded. In Crimea," I repeat, still not accepting it.

"Yes. I'm surprised you're not there," Bastian looks at me with confusion. "I could have sworn you were behind it, trying your hand at some shadowy politics. They use the same term for themselves that you use for yourself."

I snort.

"Which one? Because I'm filth, I'm dirt, I'm a maggot, a worm, a rodent, vermin, worthless, nothing, slave-"

"Freaks. They call themselves Freaks," Volke growls. The sound is deep in his throat and sounds feral, in touch with the part of himself that most people try to keep in check. I get the feeling that he doesn't try as hard as some to keep his wild side tamed- if he tries at all.

"I still don't get it. Crimea is the most understanding of the laguz and has laws protecting Branded children. If anyone would be planning a revolt it would be Gallia- they still ignore us and attack any Branded who talk to them," I point out.

Bastian and Volke glance at each other. I see the surprise written clearly on Bastian's face, and the assassin looks… I don't know…proud, I guess? He did train me a little, but I didn't think he was _that _interested in my advancement. I throw my hands in the air and make a sound of disgust.

"Really guys? Are you seriously that surprised that I know what is going on around me? I _do _have eyes, you know."

Bastian gives me a sideways glance and I turn my pout on to full power. He rolls his eyes and returns his gaze to Volke.

"You didn't tell me this."

The assassin simply shrugs. "You didn't ask for information on the treatment of the Branded, just legislation regarding their status, rights, and compensational benefits, if any. And I did give you a discount," he says. Ah, the all-powerful discount, which the master assassin Volke only gives to his most loyal and prestigious customers on the most desperate or personal of occasions. This must have been a sore spot for him- Bastian's birthday isn't until next month. Not sure why Volke would hate Gallia, but I really don't care.

"So," I interrupt Bastian's next thought, "You still haven't quite answered my question. You're here in Daein because you need to see Sothe and Micaiah about this uprising, but why are you _here_? As in, at my house with my brother in completely the wrong district for your mission."

I hear footsteps upstairs, but I don't pay them any mind. Jessob often runs around trying to eavesdrop or move random things around, seeing if I'll notice. I do, every time, but sometimes I let him have a win. It encourages him to keep trying and getting better, so why not encourage him? The world needs more _good_ thieves.

Volke catches my eye and I nod, giving him permission to tuck Jessob back in. he turns to leave, then looks back at me.

"When he was signing to you, I didn't understand this sign-" he shows me the sequence in question, "Is it something he isn't supposed to say or what?"

"That," I snicker, "is a sequence of signs he used to describe you. He called you 'the sneaky silent man.'"

He just nods and heads upstairs, where the footsteps have mysteriously stopped in the guest bedroom.

"We are here to enlist your aid, Katja," Bastian sighs.

Uh oh. This is not good. Bastian never asks for my help- usually he makes me go with him to wherever and tries to teach me something I don't want to learn. If he wanted my kind of help, he would just ask Volke- he's ten times the assassin I'll ever be. And he gives discounts.

"We need you to help explain the workings of the Branded community to the King and Queen of Daein. You know more than we do and Micaiah was too busy caring for Sothe when he was a child to find others like her, if she even knew that there was a considerable number. We need to convince them to leave the country for a time and attend a conference between Beorc and Laguz, and we require a representative for the Branded who is not a monarch or a revolutionary. We thought of Soren, but Volke claims that he left the continent with Ike after the Goddess war. That leaves you. Also, we need to plan defenses against the revolutionaries, and no one knows Branded abilities as well as you do."

I consider the information he's given me.

"You didn't speak in iambic pentameter once in that entire speech. It's harder to do than you let on, isn't it?"

"Focus, Katja."

"Okay, okay, fine! I'll go with you, but only if you let me bring Jessob and promise to feed him like a king. He deserves better than this, but he won't leave me and I can't provide for him."

Bastian nods, "You have a contract, my dear young assassin."

"You still didn't quite get your iambic pentameter right."

* * *

"Katja, make him sit still."

I open one eye and look at Volke, who actually looks as irritated as he sounds.

Bastian is trying to get Jessob to sit quietly while Volke enlists my help. He got his knife back about fifteen minutes ago after Jessob asked to see it; he had actually made a pretty good run at keeping Volke from getting it back, but he was no match for the master assassin. Since then Jessob has stolen twenty gold from Bastian, my hair clip, and tried to take Volke's knife again.

"He is a six year old orphan who is going to a castle with a politician, a 'fireman,' and his older sister to meet the king who used to be a thief and the queen who can see the future. _You _ make him sit still."

The assassin glares at Jessob, who just shrugs and signs at super speed. He asks all kinds of questions about the castle that Volke ignores, then starts to call him-

"Jessob!"

He looks at me sheepishly, hands stopped mid-sign.

"You know you don't use that kind of language, especially when Volke could kill you in less than a second. Sit down and look out the window; you're missing all kinds of interesting things. Look," I point out the window on my side, "we're passing the soldiers' training ground now."

Bastian looks at me gratefully and Volke puts his poker face back in place as Jessob rushes over to my side of the carriage to watch the soldiers train as we pass. That's one thing I will never understand about Jessob- he has always wanted to be soldier. As soon as he's old enough to enlist he will, even though he's seen nothing but the ugly side of what soldiers can do. He's never said as much, but I can tell; even as we're hiding from soldiers that march past his eyes light up with expectation. Maybe he thinks he'll be a good soldier, an honorable one, and that he'll help people instead of being an asshole. It makes sense. He's old enough to know about and have morals and young enough to still be idealistic. But every time I picture him, sixteen years old and handsome as all get out, standing in line with other boys in a soldier's uniform, I feel sick. I know he wouldn't do the things that I've seen soldiers do, but I feel sick all the same.

It's far from my place to kill his dreams with my twisted fears, though, so I let him dream.

When we finally reach the castle, we're rushed inside to keep people from seeing us. Not quite sure why- Bastian is well known and Volke is… well… not. Either way, not a surprising thing for either of them to be there, not even with a boy and a young woman. At least I'm not wearing my gypsy costume anymore- instead I have a long shirt with loose sleeves and baggy trousers, dark grey mottled with black. Better for sneaking than all black unless it's night time. They don't check us for weapons, which is stupid; I have my knuckles in my pocket and a knife hidden in my boot as well as my personal dagger in a forearm sheath- hence the loose sleeves. I'm sure Volke has at least that many weapons on his left arm. I don't understand why he carries so many, it's almost ridiculous. He doesn't even need weapons. He _is _a weapon. His teeth are sharp like a wolf's and his hand to hand combat skills are insane. All these knives he's carrying… it's redundant.

Still no weapons checks as we enter the audience chamber- it's like nobody cares whether or not we have hidden weapons. I know the queen can see possible futures, but there has to be a way around it- like winging your assassination instead of having a plan. In that respect I would have the advantage over Volke- but only that respect for that one assassination.

Once inside, Bastian wastes no time greeting Sothe and Micaiah in iambic pentameter that I now know is well thought out. Micaiah gives me a strange look, and Sothe gives her a concerned one, and I glare at both of them before Volke gives me an almost imperceptible shake of his head. All in all, lots of staring and uncomfortable looks for and from everyone.

As the inevitable finally happens and they start with all of the pointless _talking,_ I move to one of the walls and stand beside a tapestry. Sothe was a thief once, so the tapestries confuse me- so easy for an assassin to hide behind, so hard to move to get at whoever's behind. They have no place in an audience room, or in the castle in general, I don't care how good Micaiah's foresight is. No one can trick death forever, no one can stave off the cold grip of eternal sleep- through fortune-telling or anything else.

Why am I so morbidly fixed on assassinations right now?

"Have you figured it out yet?"

I snap out of my reverie at the sensation of a knife lightly tracing my skin and glance over at Volke; damn, that man is good. I have no idea how long he's been standing beside me, but his presence is reassuring, considering he's a cold-blooded murderer. I don't look at him, instead staring straight ahead, and he does the same. I lean against the wall with one leg relaxed and my arms crossed- and he does the same. It's scary, really, how similar we are sometimes.

But wait- figured it out? Obviously I've missed something, because he's waiting for me to say yes or no. I sink into logic: tapestries where they don't belong, no pillars, open space, hardly any guards around. Not an ideal place to be for audiences… which are usually held in throe rooms. No thrones here. I run the passages through my head, comparing them to the dimensions of the castle- and I remember feeling as though we were getting deeper and deeper underground. The passageways couldn't have been sloped- wait- they could have been just slightly, and then… yes… the dimensions don't fit inside the castle, we're _outside_ of it…

"We're not in the castle anymore, are we? This must be Ashnard's secret chamber- I didn't think anyone had found it. Begnion certainly didn't." I speak in a hushed tone, uncomfortable with the echoes that normal volumes create. Volke had used the same tone, which hardly surprises me.

He nods.

"Begnion didn't find because they didn't know where to look. Micaiah found it with her foresight after the Goddess War, when Pelleas gave her the throne. It's just outside the castle, completely underground, probably miles under it. Ashnard was so paranoid that he only ever met with the Four Riders under here."

I nod in return. I really hate it when he tests my knowledge like that, mostly because I'm terrified that I'm going to answer wrong.

. I don't want him to feel as though he wasted his time training me, even though he did. In truth I'm a waste of space as well, but I am currently to infatuated with life to give a damn about the waste I'm spacing- damnit!- the space I'm wasting to off myself. And Beorc can fly and bird Laguz have gills to breathe underwater… now I'm just spouting off nonsense. Brain moving slower than the thoughts that occupy it, and causing stupid mix ups- aren't they called spoonerisms?- that brings up pictures of spoons in drawer- okay, now that's just _dirty…_

Shut up shut up _shut up_!

"Katja!"

Everyone is looking at me- why the hell are they looking at me?...

"What?" I snap.

"… You're bleeding," Volke motions to my arm. When I look down, I can see what they're all staring at; I have five puncture marks on my right forearm, blood streaming slowly but steadily from each one, running down my arm until they converge into one stream and finally begin to drip onto the floor. I feel a dull throb in my arm, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, but not my breath, which I've been holding. I sigh and hold my arm out to Volke, who pulls a length of cloth from his person somewhere and wraps my arm. Not quite sure why he carries medical supplies in his various pockets, but I'm hardly going to question the practice when it means I don't have to stare at my nail wounds. That would be rude.

It just occurs to me that Volke must have said my name quite a few times before the time I heard him and snapped at him.

"Katja, Micaiah wanted to ask you some questions. Are you alright to continue?"

I don't look up, partly because I want to seem disinterested unfazed by what just happened, but mostly because I'm waiting for the heat in my cheeks to die down before I show people my oh-my-Goddess-I-want-to-die face.

Maybe I should look into why I do things like this when my brain goes off on multiple tangents. Just a thought.

"Yeah, sure, ask away," I shrug, "But I'm not going over there."

I can hear Bastian start to say something, but he's interrupted by footsteps coming over to me. Well, well, well, the queen is coming to the peasant- I _so_ love the irony of her asking me for help, since it was probably her "royal decree" that I be caught before I terrorize any more shopkeeps.

"Do you want me to heal that?"

"No," I answer quickly. She could use a staff, but most likely she was offering to use Sacrifice. I've never been healed by Sacrifice before, but I suspect that it would hurt just as much as being healed by a staff. And being connected to her on a spiritual level like that might trigger my Curse, and potentially suck her soul out of her body.

Being me is so much fun!... not.

"Next question please, it makes me anxious to be away from the boy." Jessob hadn't been allowed into the meeting, instead being taken by two young men named Leonardo and Edward to the soldier's training area. He had some paper and a piece of charcoal, so he could communicate somewhat, and they promised to take good care of him, but…

"I understand completely," Micaiah smiles. Sothe, who has been standing behind her, asks the next question.

"What's going on with the Branded in Crimea?"

"Honestly, I have no clue. I'd have thought Gallia would be the first to revolt, or maybe Begnion, but not Crimea."

"What do you mean the first?"

I sigh. This guy is sharp. Not a bad thing for him, but it would have saved me a lot of explaining if he wasn't.

"I mean the revolt is part of a plan. Some people- mostly Branded, but some others- think the world was better off as stone. The strong were saved, as well as those saved by the light around the medallion and the goddess Ashera, but because the Goddess never created the Branded or intended upon their creation, all with the Brand were saved from being turned to stone. They believe that if they can split the Goddess back into two separate entities, the world will once again become stone, leaving the Branded as the only race left standing."

I pause to let that sink in.

"They have been planning this for a while. Starting with Crimea may not have been tactical brilliance on their part, as they could easily lose support, but it shows they mean business. They ignored subtlety in favor of shock and awe, which is not good. They want to get the continent's attention- and now that they've got it, they will continue this spree until the whole continent is at war again."

"You're one of them aren't you. That's why I can't sense any possible futures with you in them- you're Branded," Micaiah breathes.

"Yeah, and unless you had some bad eggs at breakfast this morning, I'm also the reason you don't feel well- my Chaos conflicting with your Order, and so far I'm winning," I reply coolly. I don't like her voice- it reminds me of warm blankets and feathers on my cheek. She's too soft, to naïve to fully comprehend the situation, that she let the enemy into the heart of her stronghold. Sothe, however, understands completely.

Moves to pin me to the wall, then grunts as Volke pulls a knife from his left sleeve and whips the blade to Sothe's throat. My hands twitch by my pockets, ready to grab my knuckles if Sothe tries to come at me again.

"If you're one of them-"

"Relax, smart guy, I _was_ with them. I copped out on killing some Beorc kids who made the mistake of throwing a rock at my superior and got kicked out. Not before they gave me a second brand-" I lift up my shirt and pull on the waistband of my trousers, revealing the burn on my hip- "But you're safe to assume I'm not going to stab you in the back unless you hurt me and mine." The whole thing comes out as a sneer, totally unlike me, and I can feel the bloodlust coming over me- I'm just itching for a fight, and I don't care who gives it to me. Also not like me, I'd rather run than fight most days. It's like I'm not myself...

Sothe appears to back down and Volke puts his knife back in his sleeve, while Micaiah just stares at me.

"Shouldn't you be freaking out over how your husband could have died?" I growl. Idiot woman has no idea what's going on around her, or-

"I knew Volke wouldn't hurt him."

-foresight. Of course she knew Volke wouldn't hurt Sothe. He would _never_ do that unless he was being paid a copious amount of gold. Sarcasm is a lovely thing to keep the mind occupied, isn't it?

Focus.

"All right. Fine. Do you have any more questions for me or am I free to grab the boy and leave? I'm obviously not welcome here anymore, and to be honest I don't want to be here."

I turn towards the exit, planning on walking behind Volke as opposed to between him and Sothe- or worse, behind Sothe with no clear path to Volke- but of course she takes my question seriously.

"I do have one more question- what is your gift?"

I can't help it. They probably think I've gone mad, what with the nail wounds and now this, but it just… I can't help it.

I laugh at her.

"The last I gift I got was before my mother was killed by a group of ignorant villagers. What you have, your foresight and Sacrifice? That is a Curse, given to you through the mixed blood of two corrupt races. Every good power has a devastating side effect, and some powers don't have any good traits. Foresight only tells you what may come, which any decent tactician or logical thinker should be able to deduce fairly accurately. Sacrifice can kill you before you even save the one you're healing- and it doesn't bring back the dead, so you can't even exchange a life for a life. And my Curse," _is that everyone around me dies, _"Is that I came to see you. Good bye."

This time I do walk out of the room, leaving Bastian to clean up my mess and Volke do whatever the hell he pleases. I don't care anymore- I'm not even sure I did in the first place. All I can think about right now is getting Jessob some food and a bed, and that I probably just screwed over not just the people I care about, but the entire continent.

All in a day's work, I guess.

**Author's Note: Wow. Long chapter, much? Well, hopefully it makes up somewhat for me being the exact opposite of a Regular Update Nazi. And for those of you wondering what's wrong with Katja... sucks to be you, because I have no clue when I'm going to explain that to you. The biggest problem is that Katja herself doesn't know, so it won't be revealed through her internal dialogue. Also, suggestions as to who else could show up in the story next are welcome! I will hopefully get to the point where almost everyone from the games who isn't canonically dead to appear, but some I will have to either kill myself or have dead before this story starts through accident and whatnot. So I guess if you want me to kill somebody specific, you could send in that request too... Please review! I'm not mean and I promise I'll reply if I can! Anonymous reviews will be answered through author's notes, so ask questions, give criticisms... or leave me review-less. I guess that's okay. Sort of. Not really...**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Aaaand another chapter down. Or up. Your choice. People are probably going "Oh my Lord! Is she ever going to shut up?" Well... yes and no. If I don't start getting some reviews on this story, it will go on hiatus for a while and I will be starting a little bit of a Zelda idea that has been bouncing around my skull since the last time I played Twilight Princess. Which was several months ago, so it really needs to come out. I know this thing has been getting boring, but there will be more action soon, I promise! I swear on my life there will be action in the chapter after this one, I have just been having trouble deciding- well, where to put in a fight. Just didn't seem appropriate to introduce Katja's fighting on Sothe because if she kicked his ass she would have to be half god or something, and letting her get defeated is not an option this early on. Warning: this chapter is not entirely necessary to the entire plot, but some of the things have a place in the storyline later on. Mostly it just adds to my wordcount. Hope you enjoy it- and come back for the action next chapter!**

I really wish I could be this peaceful. I stroke Jessob's hair as he sleeps, though it might seem creepy to anyone who walks in. I don't mean to act creepy, I just- I envy the kid. He was abandoned and abused, and other than the occasional nightmares, he sleeps peacefully. Even then the nightmares are more normal- running from monsters and falling from cliffs as opposed to being tortured by faceless beings and reliving past experiences.

I don't sleep much anymore. Sleeping makes me vulnerable, and I can't afford to be vulnerable. I won't let my guard down, not even to rest for three or four hours, because it only takes three or four minutes to bleed out. It seems silly that such a small amount of time is all that's needed for you to die when you can leak out thousands of litres of tears and sweat and blood over the course of a lifetime, just to bleed out and die in a few minutes.

"You're awake."

No duh I'm awake, Bastian. How many people do you know that sit up and stroke a boy's hair when they're asleep? Seriously?

"…Yeah. I'm awake." I laugh at the statement, because it's stupid. Of course I'm awake.

"I'm always awake."

I don't bother to look over my shoulder at the blond politician. He's probably standing straight like a soldier with his hand on his hip, ready to grab his sword and duel anyone worthy of his attention. Odd that he'd have a sword to duel with but use magic on the real battlefield. Or not; his rapier would probably break as soon as he tried to kill someone. Not good for much, that. I call it a toad-sticker, and rightfully so, because that's all it's good for… if that.

"I know that you are. Do you want to talk?"

Ugh. Just like a politician, wanting to talk. I hate talking about my problems; if talking solved anything assassins wouldn't exist and soldiers would just be for show. But maybe it'll make me feel better to talk about this- isn't there a mind doctor working on this?...

"I can't sleep. Three hours of sleep isn't worth the possibility of having my throat cut and bleeding out in three minutes," I tell him. "I mean, what if I die and Jessob gets hurt? I have to be here to protect him."

"Katja, you cannot protect him forever."

"But that's the thing- _I can._ I _can_ protect him forever. That's the only thing I can thank the goddess-awful Brand on my back for, and I won't let something as stupid dying get in my way."

He comes and sits beside me on the bed, claps his hand on my shoulder, but doesn't reply. How can he? It's true. I will live at least twice as long as Jessob if I keep my Curse in check. As long as I keep my emotions controlled I will never have to worry about the future.

That is my Curse. I can create empathy links with people and through them, take the energy from their bodies for my own use, and I can burn people with my hands, and I have an awful bloodlust that I don't know whether it's a Curse or just a thing- I suspect it's a thing, Volke has it too and he isn't Branded- but the worst is the Futuresight. I seize and I fall unconscious and I scream and punch if anyone touches me- at least that's what I'm told. As far as I know firsthand, I get a shooting pain in my head followed by a throbbing ache, like pressure building in my skull. As soon as it feels like my head is going to explode, I pass out. Sometimes there's just a voice, but usually it's visions. I see things happening, and I may or not remember when I wake up. If I don't remember it right away, I remember it as it's happening, the beginning of the event acting as a prompt and the rest of it replaying seconds before it happens in reality. It's like foresight 2.0; I don't see many events at once. But any event I do see is set in stone- a fixed point if you will. No matter what I see, no matter what I try, I cannot alter the events I see. I've tried everything I possibly can short of killing myself. It's quite interesting really- because I don't what choices will lead me to each moment, anything I do to try and stop them could actually be the very thing that leads me right to what I'm trying to stop.

It also gives me a hell of a headache when I try to think about it.

The entrance of another voice in the conversation breaks my chain of thought.

"I have a message."

I don't turn around this time either.

"Ah, Volke. Could you wait outside for a moment?"

"Actually, the message is for Katja," the assassin answers. Lovely. Micaiah- because it has to be Micaiah- has sent me a message. I can hardly contain my "joy" at this wonderful, spectacular news. Honestly, she pisses me off more than Jorge!

Sarcasm really is one of the most entertaining things to occupy your mind with.

"I will take my leave of you then, Katja," Bastian sighs. I get the feeling that he wanted to talk more, but it doesn't matter because I was done anyway. As… _entertaining _as Bastian can be, Volke really lets me have it when I'm being an idiot. And he doesn't treat me like a child either when we talk- he treats me as though I'm experienced in the ways of the world and all that jazz. Not that we talk often- neither of us are big on words.

Once Bastian is gone, I revel in the silence left behind. Nothing is ever really silent- even now I can hear the wind outside, Jessob breathing, my own heartbeat, and the squeak of the final stair as Bastian finally reaches it. All good things come to an end though, unfortunately, which includes my wonderful "silence." And because it's Volke, I'm the one who has to break it.

"So what's the message?"

"She wanted to apologize for Sothe's behavior earlier and extend an invitation to talk. Figured you might need some guidance."

"Yes, well, that is very kind of her to offer, but I don't need her help."

I hesitate before asking him my question. He doesn't like questions, and he'll do his best to give you bull answers. He charges too, so if you don't phrase your questions right and don't have enough money, you will end up broke and missing time out of your life for nothing.

"How does it feel? I mean, to be able to provide for the people you care about, and protect them and stuff." I know he's not going to answer me in some convoluted wacko explanation that will take me days to figure out that it means screw off or something. That's more like Bastian and other politicians I've had the _dis_pleasure of meeting. That doesn't mean I'll get a straight answer though.

"I wouldn't know. Assassins don't care about other people." Or he'll just do that.

You bloody liar! "Don't lie to me. I've seen it- the braid at the back of your head. You hide it under your other hair so no one sees it, but I found it when I was little. So don't tell me that you don't know what it's like." I used to think it was mother's, but the hair she had braided with her own was much lighter than Volke's. There's no way they were a couple. Besides, that was a child's fantasy, an impossibility that only a scared, lonely kid could think up. Lots of women have blonde hair. Maybe he had a wife and a kid- or maybe he had a sister, I've heard that people do that for family members as well. Either way, he's lying.

"… I have to go."

Yeah. Of course you do. Everybody has to leave when they're around the Branded- we're evil you know. We kill women and eat children, and if you lock gazes we'll cast the evil eye spell on you. And that sounded just a _little tiny bit _psychotic… maybe I do need some sleep.

Well. With Volke around I doubt if even a fly could get killed on his watch. It's probably time I get a little shut-eye for the first time in a while.

**Author's Note: This will probably be the last time I leave a note at the beginning and the end. I'll just pick one and go with it next time. And yes, I do in fact picture Bastian with a rapier and nothing you say about official artwork can stop me. Mwahaha- *cough cough*- all right no evil laughing until I kick this cold. Later! Only one more chapter after this before this goes on hiatus unless I get some reviews. Do with this information what you will.**


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